Chomp.
Chomp.
"Vitaly, come inside, the soup is ready." A voice finally broke Vitaly's trance as he lowered his old, stump axe, his grip loosening. Calluses already defined his hands.
"Hah." He breathed out, the cold air streaming upwards.
"Just a moment, Sasha," Vitaly answered, looking at his red hands, the cold winter air freezing them.
He bent down to grab a stack of wood, carrying it to the small shed next to the house. The door opened with a loud creak as the wood dropped onto the floor.
"Vitaly?" The woman's voice grew louder, closer, until she stepped outside.
"Where are you? The soup will be getting cold in this weather." She called out, walking toward the small pile of wood lying beside Vitaly's axe.
She turned, looking around, until her eyes landed on the open door of the shed.
She raised her skirt slightly and quickened her pace toward the door, shaking her head in annoyance.
"There you are," she began, seeing her husband's figure inside the shed.
That was when she stopped, her eyes widening in horror. Her husband turned around slowly, looking at her with a fearful gaze as another silhouette became visible.
A man clad in thick winter clothes, a submachine gun in his hands, the muzzle raised.
"Vitaly, what is going on?" Sasha asked, almost whispering, her voice careful and unsteady.
"I don't know, this man..." her husband began before getting interrupted. He turned back toward the unknown intruder.
The man raised his gun in a threatening manner, shouting something toward Sasha, who opened her mouth.
"Yes, I will come closer," she said in German, stepping beside her husband.
Maler looked at the couple before him with heavy eyes, sleep deprivation clouding his mind and senses.
His gaze shifted to the man lying in the back of the shed, on a bed of wheat, a blood-soaked bandage wrapped around his torso.
Maler only knew that he had to protect him.
"We need help," he finally said, looking at the woman who apparently understood some German.
"Help," he repeated in broken Russian, hoping they would understand one way or another.
The woman slowly nodded, looking at her husband as she whispered something to him.
A few minutes later, Maler sat on the ground, his muzzle still barely raised, as he watched with tired eyes while the woman attended to Baumann's wounds.
He bit his lip, trying to stay awake.
Everything had gone awry. The attack and the gruesome journey here. And of course it had to hit Baumann, who was proficient in Russian, in contrast to him. They were still far, too far from Moscow.
A groan pulled Maler from what he hoped had been a brief sleep. He saw Baumann slowly rising from the wheat, the woman standing beside him.
With a groan of his own, Maler pushed himself up as well, his submachine gun rising with him.
"You don't need that," Sasha said, meeting Maler's eyes as he stumbled toward Baumann.
"I will judge that," Maler replied, resting his hand on Baumann's shoulder.
"How are you? How is the pain?"
Baumann sighed.
"It's fine."
"It's not," Maler interrupted, handing him the submachine gun.
"I need to sleep. Make sure... all of this..."
Maler did not even finish his sentence as he sank into the wheat where Baumann had been lying.
Far from Maler and Baumann, another part of Operation Roter Schatten was unfolding...
Southern Ukraine, Odessa - Ghost Team
"Keep your hat low," Gustaf whispered to Hermann, who nodded as they walked through a dark street, the sounds of machinery and workers all around them.
The scent of the sea lingered in the air, mixing with the rising steam.
Gustaf pulled out a piece of paper.
"Our contact person will wear a black suit, below average height, blonde. Waiting for us at the eastern docks of the harbor, inside the largest warehouse," he repeated. Hermann listened while scanning the area around them.
They were already at the docks, fishing ships and cranes filling the area, along with rows of warehouses.
Hermann looked at his watch.
"Nearly midnight. We have to find it."
Gustaf nodded, scanning the perimeter as well.
"You think that is the largest one?" he asked, pointing toward a building a few hundred meters away, towering slightly above the rest.
"Hopefully," Hermann whispered. The two men continued walking until they reached an old, rusty metal door.
Gustaf sighed, his right hand resting on his pistol as he stretched out his left toward the doorknob.
"Hey!" Hermann groaned as he was shoved aside by a man walking past. Gustaf quickly retracted his hand, clenching his teeth.
The worker seemed drunk, unsteady on his feet, shouting something in Russian. It sounded like curses.
Gustaf grabbed Hermann, pulling him toward himself, but the worker grabbed Hermann as well, shouting something more.
That was when someone appeared from behind. The worker followed Gustaf's gaze, only to widen his eyes. A fist crashed into his nose, sending him flying onto the ground as the man spat at him.
Gustaf sized him up. Black suit, not very tall.
The man shoved the worker aside, shouting something in Russian before turning toward Gustaf and meeting his eyes.
"Guten Tag," he said in a light Russian accent, rather loudly as he stretched out his hand.
Gustaf flinched, looking around in a brief panic.
"No need to worry, there is no one here," the man said calmly, his hand still in the air. Gustaf shook it, but his grip suddenly tightened, as if remembering something.
"The phrase?"
The man in the black suit looked at Gustaf for a fleeting moment before his eyes lit up.
"Eisernes Kreuz."
Gustaf let out a quiet breath of relief, releasing his hand and patting Hermann on the back.
Hermann nodded and shook the man's hand as well.
"Let us get inside. We have a lot to talk about."
The man inserted a key, opening the rusty door with a light kick before closing it again behind Gustaf and Hermann.
The door shut with a dull clang behind them, muffling the distant noise of the docks. Inside, the warehouse was dimly lit, a few hanging lamps casting long shadows between stacked crates and machinery.
The man in the black suit stepped forward, loosening his collar slightly.
"Josef," he said, almost offhandedly, brushing a bit of dust from his sleeve. His posture was relaxed, one hand slipping into his pocket, but his eyes still flicked between them.
"Gustaf," he replied with a short nod.
"Hermann."
Josef gave them a lazy smile and gestured deeper into the warehouse.
"You weren't followed, I hope?"
"Just that drunk worker," Hermann said.
Josef chuckled quietly.
"Then you already had the full Odessa welcome."
They moved further inside. A large wooden table stood near the center, covered in maps and scattered papers.
Gustaf's gaze lingered on it.
"You've been busy."
Josef shrugged, pulling out a chair and turning it around before casually leaning against it.
"Busy enough."
Gustaf leaned onto the table, scanning the maps.
"So you are supposed to get us inside Zhukov's mansion. I suppose this is it?" he asked, pointing at the map in the middle, a marker placed right beside the Black Sea.
Josef nodded, leaning forward as well, one hand casually resting on the table.
"His holiday mansion at the Black Sea," he said, a faint smirk forming. "Seems the great Marshal decided he deserves a bit of fresh sea air."
Hermann frowned slightly.
"Convenient."
Josef shrugged.
"Suspiciously convenient, sure. But I made myself useful."
Gustaf glanced at him.
"Meaning?"
Josef reached into his coat and pulled out a folded document, placing it on the table. Alongside it, he dropped a small metal badge.
"Supply deliveries. Food, alcohol."
Hermann picked up the badge, inspecting it.
"You're on the list?"
Josef gave a small, almost amused nod.
"Not me. A man named Petrov." He paused briefly. "Petrov drinks too much."
Gustaf's eyes flicked up.
Josef spread his hands lightly.
"He won't be making deliveries for a while."
A short silence followed.
Hermann set the badge back down.
"And we just take his place?"
"Exactly," Josef said. "A truck arrives every two days. Same route, same papers, same guards at the gate."
He tapped the document.
Gustaf leaned back now, mustering Josef.
"Why are you doing this?"
Josef for the first time, retracted his leisure smile, before it suddenly reappeared far thicker than before. A golden tooth shining through.
"Money. What else."
The conversation didn't go much further after that. Plans were reviewed, details repeated, and roles made clear, until words slowly gave way to silence. Outside, the wind picked up, carrying the snowfall with it, rattling against the walls of the warehouse.
That was how they spent the night. Waiting, preparing, and letting the hours pass as the storm gathered strength.
Zhukov stood before his window, watching as the intensity of the snow increased.
"Looks like a snowstorm," the marshal murmured, the fireplace beside him crackling steadily.
"I wonder what it will bring me this time."
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MAP FOR REFERENCE
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